


Moments

by Lady_Juno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Being a genius is not as easy as it sounds, Gen, Sherlock Being Sherlock, sherlock is a genius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Juno/pseuds/Lady_Juno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Moments, in which Sherlock says, does, or thinks things that remind us of how much we love him. And hate him, occasionally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Glad I'm Not You

“Is it relaxing, not being me?” Sherlock’s question wasn’t prefaced by anything more or less than the complete silence of an empty flat. “I imagine it must be. Your brain is practically _stagnant_ , you observe so little. Without all the important things in your mind, it must be so vacant.” An airplane roared through the sky, flying higher than normal. A car engine idled outside. The radio in the corner buzzed quietly, plugged in but not turned on.

“I honestly envy you, John. Never knowing, never seeing.” Sherlock scowled at the ceiling. “Hear the question, seek the answer- but you never feel the need to seek the answers when you don’t see the questions. What must it be like, knowing that you can safely live you own life and care about your own things without worrying about perishing from the boredom of it all?” Someone opened the post box down the street and dropped in a small package. Birthday present. Mrs. Hudson picked up the phone downstairs, then set it down again without making a call.

“It would be nice to turn it all off, but then what would I do? Kill someone, likely enough. Several someones. Too many to choose from. They’re all so stupid.” Footsteps. Stairs. The door opened. “Why are they all so stupid, John?”

“What?” The doctor paused in the doorway, his baffled expression obvious in his tone. “Why are who stupid?”

“All of them! They’re all so stupid! The answers stare them in the face and they never take the time to notice!” Sherlock leapt off the couch. “God, I’m glad I’m not you.” Prowling into the kitchen, he pulled a bag of fingers from the vegetable crisper. John sighed and closed the door.

"Nice to come home to such a cheerful atmosphere."


	2. Deal with the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, John finds himself in the position of being kept up to ungodly hours by his insane flatmate, and begins to question his own sanity.

_I've made a deal with the Devil._

John's typing wasn't as rapidfire as it usually was. His blog hadn't had an update in a week. He needed to do this. On the other hand... he shot a sidelong glance at the time display and groaned. He would have gladly throttled his flatmate.

_I didn't know who he was at the time, but he seemed very convincing. Told me all sorts of things about me--was entirely logical about the whole charade._

Standing near the window, the lean form of Sherlock Holmes was wielding a violin as though his life depended on it, playing loud, fast, jarring notes and muttering to himself. Even though he couldn't quite hear Sherlock's voice over the raucous din of the man's instrument, John could read his lips easily enough.

"Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored..."

_And at first it seemed to work out very pleasantly for me, in spite of the inconveniences and unorthodox habits of my new partner. Right now, however, I'm beginning to regret my choice._

The violin instantly halted its wild screeching. In the absence of a sound that threatened to break his eardrums and resembled the vocalizations of an insane tomcat, John's ears were ringing. He turned to look at the world's only consulting detective, and wondered if he was done disturbing the peace for tonight. Rather than sitting down or drinking tea or doing something sensible, the man was staring at John's laptop with the manic light of curiosity in his eyes.

"You just finished saying something you think is important." It wasn't a question. "Judging by your expression, probably something not positive, and probably about me. How delightful. Read it to me." The entire schpiel was delivered very much in the same harsh, quick manner that he's been playing, and no sooner had he finished, than Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa and lifted the violin to his chin.

"How in the world could you possibly have known that I've just finished anything at all?" John couldn't help asking. He suspected that his curiosity was just as insatiable as Sherlock's, it was merely directed at more practical things.

"You paused for longer than two seconds, and you looked like you were waiting for someone to respond. You haven't been typing fast enough or regularly enough to have been in a chatroom, therefore you much have been updating your blog. From there it's not exactly a great leap to deduce that you've written something you consider important and paused to add weight to the words--which is ridiculous, by the way. Your readers will never know you paused there." Sherlock nodded slightly, as though triumphant, then returned to his business of bursting eardrums from the comfort of the sofa cushions.

John sighed.

_If anyone ever asks, the devil is an arrogant prick, and I seriously doubt he'll live to anything resembling a ripe old age._

He wouldn't post it, but it had been satisfying to type, at least. Too tired to argue, he read his pathetic two paragraphs. He couldn't even bring himself to take pleasure in knowing Sherlock Holmes was getting an unfiltered opinion of himself, even from his own flatmate. After he finished, there was a moment of stillness. Not the jarring, sudden stillness of silence after loud noises, but the expectant, half-worried stillness of of a man who's waiting for a doctor's prognosis. John glanced at the detective, who was sitting upright and looking at him with those piercing blue eyes, frowning slightly. For a moment, just a moment, John thought that the famous and inscrutable Sherlock Holmes was worried. That he might be concerned that he, John Watson, was actually considering moving out. That thought filled him with a mixture of satisfaction and guilt. Then Sherlock opened his mouth.

"No you don't." His tone was so assured and confident, that all of John's guilt immediately turned to frustration.

"What's that supposed to mean?" John felt a resurgence of the desire to strangle his flatmate and frowned. Sherlock looked perfectly at ease now that he'd finished processing the information, implications, and possible inferences that could be made from his friend's words.

"You don't regret being here. You love it." Sherlock's tone didn't move one jot away from complete self-confidence. John wasn't sure how much he was enjoying have his brain picked by a bored, high-functioning sociopath with a violin. In a deeply-buried part of his mind, he knew that his flatmate was right. It was Sherlock's insane schedule and constant, hectic activity that kept him sane, despite the feeling that indicated the opposite. Without the adrenaline and pressure of living with a borderline criminal, would he be able to tolerate civilian life at all?

"Says who?" At the same time, it was highly insulting to have the most secret corners of his mind looted of their treasures with such ease.

"You're still here, aren't you?" Sherlock was sounding bored again, and had clearly quite finished with the conversation. John sighed. He was right. Again.

"Alright, so I'm still here. But I won't be for long if you keep this up. Sherlock, it's bloody late, and I want some sleep. Can you please put the violin up for the night?"

"Sleep is dull," responded the detective, and didn't move to put away his violin, which he was plucking absently against his chest.

"Fine. I'm going to Jane's."

"Jane?"

"My girlfriend."

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he lifted his bow and started to play an old song about girls wearing trousers. John growled to himself and closed his laptop. He wouldn't give Sherlock the pleasure of driving him insane. Not tonight. As the door closed and John disappeared down the street, Sherlock smiled faintly at the skull on the mantelpiece.

"He'll be back. He always is."

 


End file.
